Known or unknown: Murals

Among the muck, the parka-wearing, the shivering under layers (the real cardio of winter), the pains in every limb and joint, the inability to breathe . . . among all that, not long ago, I fond myself at a private reception at The Met.  Okay, so it's no secret that I've long held The Met as a favorite, on sunny days, on the other side of the moon, when I have a day with nothing to do and no deadlines I'll spend a carefree day there.  Or, I'll just spend a few hours there when I can't stand the fight anymore.  Come to think of it; I should be there now.

To dream, as we say.

Back to that reception, which sounds swankier than it is . . . Professors got a night, for free, replete with free cocktails at the end.  I mean, seriously, people.  Who in her right mind would turn down free booze AND art? Not I, that is certain.  So, a friend from grad school and I met up and let ourselves into The Met, and then we spotted for which walks and talks to attend.  In the course of that, we opted for the one on art as social, political, and cultural texts . . . What I didn't tell her is that the mural room, in question, is one I've long known.  What was it? Thomas Hart Benton's America Today mural.  The one, with the semi-famous, capture of Jackson Pollack in it.  Yeah, that famous abstract impressionist that was also captured in a scene in Mona Lisa Smile when the art class went to view a new painting of his.   As these things go, there's a tangled history of my own here. 

I first saw it in the lobby of the now AXA building, back in 1997.  I just dated myself, I know.  I was in NYC for a course, a ten-day excursion, and in the course of things, a long-held love affair was born.  My advisor and his wife (also a professor) ran that trip, and as the week progressed Professor Britton looked at me and said I needed to make sure I went and saw the mural.  He was dead serious, pointing at me, telling me it was a must.  For the record, as great advisors go, he already knew my love affair with the visual world.  The day before I had been to the Cloisters, and he and I transversed about the unicorns and juxtaposition of fantasy and the fantasy of reality.  I'll never forget Joe saying, "Fraulein Babic, make sure you see it." Then Marge interjected, from a few feet away, "Annessa, make sure you stop and stay for awhile." They both knew me well it would seem.  

Standing in that lobby, in my jeans and Docs, I was a '90s poster child.  I had on a denim jacket, and as life would have it my Lupus was making me puffy and my face red.  Always.  Looking back, I still remember that afternoon and my starring and lost in space like it was yesterday.  My friend Sonya was with me, and she stepped out after a few moments to leave me to my wonder and awe.  I thought it was moments later, but she told me half an hour later she stuck her head in to make sure a suit hadn't kidnapped me in my riot grrrl attire.  The image of it all--my fresh eyes; my Lupus aches; my friend; my professors who shaped my career choices in more ways than I think they knew or know; and the juxtaposition of a mural of working-class grit, middle American strife, and the labors of life next to men in three-piece pin-striped suits--still shocks my seasoned soul these days.  Standing in The Met, with my grad school friend and meeting up with a colleague, we all laughed as I told the story.  

What I didn't say is that for years I've used this mural as a portal for the layers that I write: the interconnection of space; the weaving of threads and space, time, and perception; the balance and imbalance of life and the dreams we seek.  

As the evening unfolded, as life would have it, my Lupus is never at bay, and I found myself crouching low and hiding behind my friend as I tossed back Pepto like an alkie might sneak a flask into a church.  If there was ever a highlight of my life, it was undoubtedly that evening when we moved onto Picasso's Gertrude Stein, and I found myself drinking flavored chalk swill while lost in memories of the aforementioned advisor, the Hemingway and Fitzgerald class I took with him, and later conversations on the era.  Of course, the long-held promise I made to him to publish on Fitzgerald, as he said (way back then) he could see me crafting a tale of Zelda and Fitz.  Ironically, I've written on the Lost Generation more often than not, but the solo Fitz piece is finally being edited.  The protracted delay is a story for another day, but the romance and memory of it all . . . Looking back now, with the Lupus woke--then and now--and the curves life has taken, I can't help but see that Benton mural again.  Now, it would be less white, riddled with cell phones, and so forth.  I think the message would still be the same.  

Cycles of life, the community we make, the company we keep, the people we look up to to create the portrait we keep.  Known or unknown.  That is what is all comes down to.  

Among the art, a reception on water and reconstruction ruins . . . Who can complain? Not I.